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Smaller textMemories of hunting camp filled with love, loss, foul jokes, family
It is my favorite place on earth and my family's camp, in Benezette, Elk County.
Hunting camps are like magnets, attracting men of all shapes, ages and sizes the day after Thanksgiving as they prepare for buck season.
Those who make the annual trips to their favorite, crude shacks rarely find running water or cable television.
But what they do find is a few days of pure joy. To go back in time for at least a few days, and live in simple settings with no phones, no televisions, no jobs. They go there to rejuvenate their souls and rekindle their spirits.
These things fuel lifelong memories and spark men's addictions to the mountains.
Hunting camps are magical places where grown men become children and young children take their first steps to manhood.
Hunting camps play host to poker games that end with the rising sun, cold beer that never stops flowing and meals fit for kings.
Friendships are made within these mountain hollows and rekindled each year by men from different towns, different counties and different states.
As for our hunting camp, there is none better. I am partial to our slice of heaven, but I'm sure every camp owner believes the same.
Every year, like clockwork, my buddy travels from his camp at Parker Dam to spend the day with our crew.
My father, a man who could talk to a brick wall, often stops campers driving up the road for quick conversations.
Twenty minutes later, they park in our driveway and eat mountain pies by our fireplace.
Being the youngest guy in camp, I always dreaded the word mountain pie.
I was always elected to sit in front of the blazing fire to cook the delicacies for the never ending line of hungry souls.
Unfortunately, I would have to hold out and be the last to eat since the older guys refused to relieve me of my duties.
In the mountains behind our camp, I shot my first buck, the same buck that was taken from me by another hunter and brought tears to my eyes.
That same hollow where success and tragedy collided in minutes, my uncle picked up my chin and told me everything would be fine.
Tears frozen to my face, I eventually stopped sobbing.
Years later, I shot another buck that ran in the same hollow but was nabbed up by another hunter.
This time, tears did not come to my eyes, but I think they ran down my father's cheeks after he heard the story.
As for my father, every year he plans a big work detail that should only take a couple of hours. But it never fails to eat up the entire day, because he just can't control a group of men who act like children.
However, his frustration is eased by our antics and practical jokes, ones led by my cousin.
This king of comedy is like fine wine - he improves with age.
His stories become more embarrassing with each new hunting camp, and his antics bring him ever closer to a permanent bed in an insane asylum.
My older brother - the most mature of the crew - lets what little hair he has down and falls into situations that would make most men blush.
As for myself, I won't reveal anything I've done in camp, because I've given my mother enough gray hairs in my 28 years.
The good times for me are not limited to our November camp experiences.
I remember way back, to a time, at age 5, when I was catching crawfish in styrofoam cups with my brother.
Being so afraid that these little lobsters would bite off our fingers, we would jump and scream bloody murder if one would flop out of its temporary cell.
We would stay in the water until our lips were blue, our teeth chattering and our tiny hands as wrinkled as prunes.
Camp is a place where my grandfather built fires so large that I had to sit a mile away to endure the heat.
Every evening, he would create a masterpiece of logs and sticks that produced flames stretching to the sky.
It would burn all night. Its pops and crackles accompanied the Pittsburgh Pirates games that we listened to every summer night under blankets of stars.
I've tried to build fires as good as his, but just can't get it right.
They've lasted longer and burned brighter, but they just aren't the same without him sitting in his chair and cussing as he struggled to tune in the ballgame on the radio.
Across from our camp, an apple tree as old as the mountains drops green seas of fruit. We would collect them in the folds of our shirts.
My grandmother would painstakingly peel hundreds of tiny apples with dull paring knives in camp to make us the world's best apple sauce.
But, I always did feel sorry for my grandfather when leaving for camp with my grandmother.
The 2 1/2 ride took them close to six hours as they stopped at every yard sale along the 137 mile route.
Driving up the bumpy, rocky dirt road, my Uncle Wilmer could be seen sprawled out in his hammock, shirtless with suspenders, and pantlegs strangely catching in one boot, but not the other.
Here, under his shade tree, crude jokes filled the air as my aunt shouted threats at him over his foul brand of humor.
He would just chuckle and creep closer to my ear and with a softer voice tell more jokes that became more foul and more raunchy amid my aunt's threats.
Our camp is a place where I've taken almost too much vacation time.
It is where I nervously took to one knee on a cold December night and asked my best friend to marry me.
No, our camp doesn't have running water or cable television.
Our camp is heated by an old woodburner and a fireplace. Flying squirrels live in the ceiling and the place has a damp-but-wonderful odor to it.
Our camp doesn't have all the conveniences of home, it is just filled with my greatest memories.
I hope it provides the same joy to my son.
